The Quest for Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  “No, King Kelson’s come back!” the squire replied. “He’s alive! And so is Lord Dhugal!”

  Kelson stood holding the weeping Meraude in his arms as he watched Morgan, Duncan, and Dhugal bending over Nigel. Archbishops Bradene and Cardiel were in the room as well, but Ciard, Jass, and the escort of Saint Kyriell men stood guard outside to keep everyone else out. Bishop Arilan was nowhere to be found. Duke Ewan was gathering the court in the great hall, and spreading the word, but Kelson did not want to go down to them until he learned more about Nigel’s condition.

  “Oh, Kelson, he’s dying,” Meraude sobbed, shaking her head as Kelson continued to stroke her hair. “We thought you were dead, and then he had a seizure—”

  A commotion outside the door announced the arrival of Conall, the only person the guards had orders to admit. Conall’s face was white as whey as he slipped through the opening Jass allowed and came to fall to his knees at Kelson’s feet. His hands were cold as ice as he took Kelson’s hand to kiss it.

  “Kelson—my Liege!—we thought you were dead! And then father took ill, and—”

  “And you couldn’t even wait a decent interval to wed my intended bride,” Kelson said quietly, pulling his hand away and folding his arms across his chest as Meraude drew back a little. “Conall, even if you are proven innocent in every other point, I shall never forgive you for that.”

  “I only meant to secure the succession,” Conall whispered, starting to get to his feet as his mother gasped at Kelson’s implication. “Father was incapacitated, and I—”

  “I have not given you permission to rise,” Kelson said coldly, his mere glance causing Conall to sink back down.

  “Kelson, that isn’t fair,” the prince protested. “I had no way of knowing you were still alive, and neither did Rothana. It’s—incredible that you could have survived the waterfall. And then, when no bodies were found—”

  “You still acted precipitously.”

  “Was it precipitous to attempt to secure the succession as soon as possible?” Conall retorted. “I was Regent of Gwynedd, for God’s sake! No one had or has any idea how long my father might linger on. Why do you suppose the council has kept badgering you to marry, if getting an heir wasn’t important?”

  “Did they badger you?” Kelson snapped.

  “No, not yet. But you and Rothana hadn’t made any binding commitment, after all.”

  “Get up,” Kelson said distractedly, for his attention had shifted suddenly to the men clustered at the head of Nigel’s bed as Morgan drew back and beckoned him closer.

  “As we feared, it was more than a simple seizure,” Morgan said, as Kelson moved between the two archbishops at the foot of the bed, a wide-eyed and stunned Meraude hovering at his elbow. “There’s a combination of actual physical trauma and some sort of psychic lock. We didn’t see it before because we had no idea we should even look for it. It took a powerful Deryni to put it in place. Duncan and Dhugal are dealing with the actual physical damage, but we may need your help to resolve the other.”

  “A psychic lock,” Meraude whispered, plucking at Kelson’s sleeve. “Kelson, what is he saying?”

  Kelson could not bear to look at Meraude, but he turned slowly to stare coldly at her eldest son.

  “I fear you will have to ask your son about that, Aunt. Conall, do you know anything about it?”

  “I? I don’t even know what a psychic lock is. I mean, I sort of know now, but I didn’t when he had his seizure,” Conall explained. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “Because I am Truth-Reading you, Conall Haldane, despite your efforts to cloud the issue,” Kelson said, “and I don’t like what I’m seeing. Did you do this to Nigel, your own father?”

  Conall’s shields slammed even tighter, before Kelson could get a clear reading, but the prince’s mere belligerence could have been taken as an indication of guilt, even if it was not conclusive proof.

  “How dare you ask me such a question?” Conall retorted.

  “The King of Gwynedd dares to ask any question of his sworn vassal,” Kelson snapped. “Or have you so soon forgotten the oath you swore me at your knighting?”

  Before Conall could form an answer, Morgan reached out to beckon Kelson closer.

  “He’s coming around, my prince,” Morgan said, watching as Duncan and Dhugal withdrew. “Breaking the lock wasn’t as difficult as we feared, once we knew what to look for. The only problem may be a slight loss of memory.”

  But it soon became clear that whatever else had been impaired by Nigel’s long incapacitation, his memory was not affected. In the course of dealing with the lock, Duncan had imprinted Nigel with the bare essentials of Kelson’s rescue and return, so the royal duke was able to turn full attention to dealing with the cause of his previous condition as he opened his eyes and made them focus on Kelson.

  “My king, you’re alive,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and scratchy with long disuse. “And my son, who wished me dead,” he went on coldly, shifting his gaze to the terrified Conall, “would be better off dead himself, for having betrayed his blood and his sovereign. He killed Tiercel, Duncan,” he went on. “I finally put the pieces together, after you had gone to fetch Alaric, and when I confronted him on it, he tried to kill me as well. I—suppose that being a Haldane myself is the only thing that saved me.”

  Conall tried to bolt at that, but the two archbishops and then Morgan were on him before he could reach the door, throwing him to the floor. Meraude screamed, and Dhugal and Duncan tried to keep Nigel from struggling to a sitting position.

  Frantic, Conall attempted to bring his powers into play, but Morgan slapped the flat of a stiletto across his throat and searched for the right pressure points to knock him out as Cardiel and Bradene pinned his thrashing arms and legs, fighting the compulsion of Conall’s mind.

  “Conall, if you don’t stop that, I swear I’ll cut your throat!” Morgan barked. “Right now, nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  “No, bind him!” Kelson commanded, as Morgan finally managed the right pressure points and the prince went limp. “He doesn’t deserve that easy a death. But we’ll have this settled once and for all, by the law. Duncan, I’ll ask you and the archbishops to stay with my uncle. Dhugal, I want you to search Conall’s rooms. Duncan told me that certain people wondered what ever became of Tiercel’s drug satchel. I suspect you’ll find it among Conall’s things. I’m willing to wager that he was responsible for the merasha that went into your flask, so I’ll give you the dubious honor of finding where he hid the rest.”

  “And where will you be?” Dhugal asked.

  “In the Chapel Royal, convincing myself I should give this wretch a fair trial!” Kelson said, kicking the sole of one of Conall’s boots. “And Morgan, get that Haldane tunic off him. He isn’t fit to wear it. I’ll have the Ring of Fire back as well, if you have to rip his finger off to get it.”

  Kelson left to the sound of Meraude weeping in Nigel’s arms, but he could not bear to stay in the same room with Conall any longer, even with his cousin unconscious. He took Jass MacArdry with him and stationed that goodly knight outside the door of the chapel to see that he was not disturbed. There, after he had schooled his righteous anger to colder resignation—for there was little doubt of the outcome of the trial to come—he allowed himself to weep for what could never be righted, no matter what penalty Conall suffered for his crimes.

  He was kneeling slumped over the altar rail, his face buried in one hand, when he heard the door open behind him. He turned his head, expecting it to be Dhugal, come to tell him it was time, but it was Rothana, muffled in a cloak of royal blue and with the hood pulled closer around her face. He rose awkwardly as she came toward him and the door closed, but he could read nothing behind her shields. She made him a profound curtsey, her head bowing nearly to the floor before she rose to meet his eyes. She had been crying, and she was no longer the fresh-faced, carefree innocent she had been before he left.

  “I wo
uld throw myself and my husband on your mercy, my lord,” she whispered, “but I know you can never forgive what we’ve done.”

  “And what have you done, that I could not forgive, Rothana?” Kelson asked, gently folding her hood back from her face. “Surely you had no part of Conall’s treason.”

  But her hair was bound beneath the coif of a married woman, and Conall’s gold and rubies weighted heavily on her left hand. Both of them knew that, even if losing faith was not an act of treason, things could never be as they had been.

  “You are kind, Sire,” Rothana whispered, “but I know my own guilt. I am no longer worthy of you.”

  “Rothana—”

  “No, hear me, Sire. I gave up hope. And now I am Conall’s wife, bound to him for life, no matter what his condition.”

  “His life,” Kelson said sharply, “is almost certainly to be forfeit. Such is the fate of murderers and traitors. And when he is dead, I still would take his widow to wife, if she agreed.”

  “She could not agree, Sire,” Rothana whispered, lowering her eyes. “The Church could not agree. We are consanguineous now, by virtue of my marrying your first cousin.”

  “A dispensation could be obtained.”

  “No dispensation could alter the fact that I am with child by him.”

  “With child!”

  “I carry Conall’s son, my love,” Rothana said miserably, looking up at him with tears welling in her eyes once more. “That changes things.”

  “No! It only means that our children would have an elder half brother, also of Haldane blood,” Kelson replied, without hesitation. “Rothana, I love you. Don’t do this to us!”

  “I wish I could do otherwise, in honor, Sire,” she said. “But Prince Conall Haldane, my lawful, wedded lord, is the father of the child I bear, and his acts of murder and treason make me no longer fit to be your queen.”

  “No! His crimes do not touch you!”

  “In law, perhaps not, Sire, but in fact, one has only to look at how my cousin Richenda has suffered for being the widow of a traitor to guess how much worse it would be for a queen—and for that queen’s king. I could not do that to Gwynedd, my lord—and I could not let you do that to this land that you wed before you ever thought of wedding a queen. So do not take our former relationship into your reckoning, because I can never be yours now, no matter what you do.”

  Half an hour later, Kelson went down to the great hall, only Dhugal accompanying him through the cheering throngs. He deliberately had not changed into Haldane attire himself, letting the rough, slightly barbaric splendor of his mountain leathers and tweeds speak for the very uncivilized anger that still smoldered in his heart. He wore the Ring of Fire again, however, along with the Eye of Rom and his Saint Camber medal. In the crook of his arm, he carried the unsheathed Haldane sword like a royal scepter.

  His steps faltered only once, just before he reached the dais, as he saw Rothana, in Meraude’s company now, slipping in through a side door to huddle forlornly with her mother-in-law on a bench near the pallet where Nigel had been brought. The royal duke, attended by Duncan and Father Lael, was propped up on mounds of pillows, his eyes fever-bright as he struggled to rise at Kelson’s approach, only to have Duncan command him to lie down again. Dhugal had Tiercel’s water-stained drug satchel over his shoulder, with a look on his face that bespoke thoughts of murder, and Morgan waited just outside the rear doors with Conall, surrounded by the Saint Kyriell men and half a dozen fully armed knights. A further contingent of Haldane archers had been stationed in the upper galleries, arrows already nocked to bowstrings and ready to draw, certain proof against even a Deryni prisoner gaining very much advantage before he could be cut down.

  The cheering continued as the king turned to face his assembled lords, and he stood a long time, caressing the hilt of the Haldane sword, as their shouts of acclamation echoed among the high beams of the hall. Bradene and Cardiel stood behind the throne to either side, and at Kelson’s glance, as the shouting died down, the former brought forward the oldest and plainest of Kelson’s official crowns: a band of hammered gold two fingers wide, chased with a design of Celtic interlace and set with small, round cabochon rubies in some of the interstices. It was also the most primitively designed and went well with the mountain leathers and tweeds he wore. The hall grew hushed as the king bent his head to receive it from the archbishop’s hands with a murmured word of thanks and rippled in new but quieter comment as he took his seat.

  “My lords, I thank you for your welcome,” Kelson said, when silence at last lay like a tranquil pond before him. “It is good to be home and even better to know that your loyalty is unshaken. I wish I could say that all of my subjects had remained so loyal during my absence, but unfortunately, this is not the case in at least one appalling instance.

  “Before proceeding to deal with this unpleasantness, however, it is my pleasure to bring you happier news—that my beloved Uncle Nigel, who has always served me and our family with such devotion, is back among us and recovering—if weaker than he would have us believe,” he added, with a glance of mock disapproval in Nigel’s direction. “But in a few weeks, his physicians and I have every reason to believe that he will be back to his full-time occupation of bullying my royal pages and squires into becoming fine warriors and young men of honor, as well as continuing as one of my most trusted and valuable advisers. I give you welcome and thanks, Uncle.”

  As the hall erupted in shouts of enthusiastic approval, Kelson glanced again at Nigel, who ducked his head awkwardly, blinking back proud tears as Meraude came to kneel at his side. Behind him, comforted by Duncan, the two younger Haldane cousins, Payne and Rory, stood ill-at-ease and frightened looking, trying not to be obvious as they searched the back of the hall for sign of their elder brother. And Rothana, huddling even smaller on her bench, would not raise her eyes. Kelson sighed as he turned his gaze away from that sad little family.

  “Another thing I have to tell you concerns my faithful friend and confessor, Bishop Duncan McLain, the Duke of Cassan.” He could feel Duncan tensing over his shoulder, but he did not turn his eyes back in that direction. “Many of you have been aware for some time now that Father Duncan is Deryni.” He held up a hand to silence the murmurs of comment that threatened to disrupt the room again at this open and unequivocal admission of Duncan’s Deryni status. “I am also aware that some of you have voiced concerns as to what this disclosure would mean to his status as a priest and bishop.

  “I am happy to be able to tell you that I have just come from the synod now meeting in Valoret, and that the Ramos Statutes barring Deryni from the priesthood are in the process of being rescinded. Yesterday, as Archbishop Bradene will attest, the bishops voted unanimously to uphold Father Duncan’s status as a priest and bishop in good standing, granting him pardon and absolution for any errors committed in the past because of this unjust former ruling. I am assured that this absolution will be extended to any other Deryni who may presently be in holy orders, thus mitigating the grave injustices perpetuated in the past against those who came to God’s service in defiance of the laws of man and whose only sin was that they were born Deryni.

  “All of which brings us to a major departure from our former official posture regarding Deryni. The law is being changed to remove merely being Deryni from any list of crimes. But part of the reason this has not always been so in the past is because the majority of people have not been aware of the true abilities and limits of Deryni—and it is a weakness of our race, human and Deryni, that we fear what we do not understand. Therefore, what I am about to bring before you will be conducted in all openness, so that all may know that being Deryni, or even being royal, is no bar to equal and just treatment under the law. Some of what may transpire will surprise, shock, or even frighten you—but I believe it is time that you knew the truth.”

  He raised his eyes to the back of the hall, where Morgan had moved into sight with Conall at his side.

  “Alaric, Duke of Corwyn, bring in th
e prisoner.”

  A collective gasp rippled through the assembly as Morgan slowly walked Conall down the hall, his stiletto still held casually against the side of Conall’s throat, the prince’s hands bound before him, grey Haldane eyes blazing defiance and anger.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A king that sitteth in the throne of judgment scattereth away all evil with his eyes.

  —Proverbs 20:8

  Nearly everything eventually came to light in the trial that followed, beginning with Conall’s tearful, impassioned denial after Tiercel’s drug satchel was produced.

  “I didn’t start out to betray you, Kelson,” he sobbed, “but things—happened. It wasn’t fair! Why should you have gotten everything, just because your father was older than mine? You got to be king, you got all the glory—and the power—and you were going to take the woman I wanted, too. I saw you with her in the garden, that last night before we left on the quest!”

  “And so you decided to kill your rival?” Morgan said, as Rothana buried her face in her hands and wept silently, and Kelson went tight-jawed.

  “No!” Conall replied. “I was jealous—I admit that—but I never actually would have done anything to Kelson. He was my king.”

  “Yet you put merasha in Dhugal’s wine flask, knowing that Kelson might drink from it, too,” Duncan said. “Surely you knew what it would do.”

  “I know nothing about merasha,” Conall insisted, though none of the Deryni present had any doubt that he was lying. “I was—jealous of Dhugal, too, but I never would have tried to kill him.”

  “But you were quick to take advantage of the situation, once you believed Kelson and Dhugal were dead,” Archbishop Bradene said.

  Defiantly Conall lifted his head.

  “Fate seemed to have eliminated both my rivals, without my lifting a finger,” he said haughtily. “Meanwhile, I had a responsibility to my royal line. Everyone believed that Kelson was dead—including Alaric and Duncan! And that meant that my father was king—and I was his heir. It was appropriate that I take a suitable bride at once and secure the succession, as my royal cousin had failed to do. Whatever else I may have done in error, I at least have fulfilled my dynastic duty, for my lady wife carries my child. Nor is there any crime in that.”